


Desert Sun

by Laur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Foot Kink, M/M, Massage, Military, PWP, Small Hurt/Comfort, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2199810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things go a little further than expected when Doctor Watson treats fellow soldier Sherlock Holmes for a shrapnel injury.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desert Sun

John is in his tent when he hears the commotion outside. 

“I’m fine!” Irritation infuses a baritone voice. “This is entirely unnecessary.” 

“Doctor Watson!” yells Thomson just before the soldier sticks his head in John’s tent. “Got one for ya.”

John nods and follows Thomson into the medical tent where a striking young man with dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes is being pushed down onto a cot. They’ve only ever met a couple times before, but John feels an automatic smile tugging his lips at the sight of the man.

“Holmes,” John greets, ignoring the way his heart pounds when the soldier meets his gaze. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Holmes mutters, sulking impressively for a grown man.

“Got a bit of shrapnel in his leg, Doc,” Murray says. He’s got a hand on Holmes’s shoulder to keep him down. 

“Unlucky, is all,” continues Thomson. “Found a live one on patrol and Holmes was just a bit too close.”

Holmes just looks disgruntled as John kneels over the bloody tear in Holmes’s camo trousers. 

“This doesn’t look too bad,” John reassures him. 

Holmes rolls his eyes. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

John smirks a bit. “I’ve got him, lads. Thanks for dragging him in.”

Murray and Thomson nod and exit the tent, leaving John and his patient alone.

“So, found any interesting junk lately?” John asks as he sets about removing Holmes’s combat book and cutting the material obscuring the wound on Holmes’s calf. 

The first time John met Holmes, the latter was playing with a trinket he’d found in the sand. It was a watch, broken and worn, and while handling it, Holmes absently described everything about the man that had worn it, from his drinking problem to his lack of self-esteem. Flabbergasted, John exclaimed the first thing that came to mind: “Amazing!” 

Holmes looked up in shock. “Really?”

“Fantastic!” John confirmed and felt warmth in his chest at Holmes’s pleased smile. 

Holmes then proceeded to read John’s life story from the clues in his posture, facial expressions and belongings and John realized how incredible this man, who’s accent was too posh and his mannerisms too prim for the army, really was.

Now, Holmes is quiet, as though surprised John would remember such a thing. “I found a boy’s earrings,” he says at last.

John lifts his head in surprise. “A boy’s?”

“Well, the boy’s mother’s, but he’d been carrying them.”

John retrieves a pair of tweezers. “How can you possibly know that?”

There’s a brief pause and then Holmes speaks. “The earrings were buried together, not just one, so they were deliberately placed there rather than lost. The clasps were stiff from disuse, but there was no sand in them, so they’d been that way before they’d been buried. The earrings were beautiful and expensive – any woman that owned them would not risk simply carrying them around, she’d wear them. So, why have them if not to wear them? Sentiment. The earrings were an older design, less likely to be worn by a young bride, so likely they belonged to a mother. I suppose a brother could have been carrying them as reminder of his sister, or a husband as reminder of a wife, but a brother would likely keep something from their childhood and a husband would have access to all his wife’s belongings, why keep one single pair of earrings?”

Holmes pauses as John carefully but swiftly removes the stamp-sized piece of metal from his leg. To cover his hiss of pain, John asks: “If the earrings were so important, why leave them there?”

Holmes, relaxing now that the shrapnel is removed, continues. “He was being chased. He knew he’d be searched and the earrings would be taken, so he buried them there to come back for them later. More proof of a young man, as well – the earrings were his only valuable possession, yet their value was high. He likely took them when he ran, shortly after his mother was killed.” 

Holmes pauses again and tenses as John sterilizes the wound, but he doesn’t pull away. “I suppose he never came back for them, though, did he.”

Holmes clears his throat. “He might have forgotten where he’d buried them. Or he was unable to return. Killed, possibly.” 

John nods as he wraps the wound, gripping Holmes's ankle to keep him still. “It’s incredible how you figure these things out.”

“Simple observation, Doctor Watson,” Holmes murmurs.

John smiles and looks up at him. “John, please.”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, strangely affected. John notices that the man’s pupils are dilated and quickly looks back to where he’s securing the bandage. _Pain reaction_ , he tells himself.

“Then you must call me Sherlock,” Holmes rumbles above him.

John looks up again and affection fills him at the way Holmes’s – Sherlock’s – eyes have softened, at the way his dark curls are slightly matted with sweat, at the pink in cheeks too pale for the Afghan sun. So far, John’s touch has been strictly professional, but now he can’t help but stroke Sherlock’s ankle, the skin there soft and vulnerable, never exposed to the elements. As John watches, Sherlock’s lips part on an indrawn breath and those pale eyes seem to bore into John’s with heat. John, feeling bold, places both thumbs on Sherlock’s heal and presses firmly as he moves along the arch of the long foot, stopping when he reaches the MTP joints. This time, Sherlock’s gasp is unmistakable and his eyelids flutter in pleasure.

John glances around, but there is only one other patient on the other end of the medic tent, who he knows is sleeping. Swiftly, John pulls out the small curtain on one side to give them some privacy and kneels by Sherlock’s feet again. Out here in the desert, John hasn’t felt another human’s warmth for pleasure in what feels like far too long and just this little bit as his blood pumping south. Still, he hesitates as he’s about to pull off Sherlock’s other boot. “Do you want this?” he asks, because despite the unmistakable arousal in Sherlock’s eyes, John wants to be sure.

Sherlock hesitates and for a moment John is worried he’ll say no, but then the soldier gives a jerky nod. “You understand me,” he says, and the hint of disbelief in his tone makes John ache with the thought that anyone could witness what this man can do and meet it with anything other than amazement. 

John abandons Sherlock’s other boot in favour of moving up to devour Sherlock’s lips, show him how brilliant he his, but hesitates with their faces an inch apart, suddenly worried this might be going too far, crossing a boundary. What does Sherlock want out of this? Is this just about sex, a release of tension and a one-time event for him? That would make the most sense as he’s shown no inclination for anything more. John knows that for himself, if he does this, it will be more, the pull in his chest and the affection he feels for this man not indicative of a simple shag.

But John’s worries are forgotten when Sherlock pulls him closer and crushes their lips together, Sherlock’s mouth opening almost immediately to invite John in, and John tastes sand and heat, bitter tea and something unbearably _human_ , a taste that is simply _Sherlock_. John makes a rather embarrassing noise, but Sherlock’s grip on his neck and his shoulder simply tightens in response. When they break apart, they’re both breathing heavily and John places a kiss just below Sherlock’s ear to whisper: “You are incredible. God, the things I want to do to you.” Sherlock shivers noticeably and John goes back to pulling off the man’s other boot.

This time, when John presses firmly along Sherlock’s instep, Sherlock groans and his head drops back. Lying supine on the cot, the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers is unmistakable, even through the thick material. John bends back one toe at a time, stretching the muscles and releasing tension from the joints. Each time a joint pops, the gas pockets popping around the joint, Sherlock gasps and arches a little. John continues the massage with the other foot, feeling himself react to Sherlock’s reactions, until Sherlock gasps out: “Come up here.”

Quickly scrambling to straddle the taller man, John leans in to kiss him again. Sherlock pulls John’s hips flush with his own and they both moan at the pleasure the contact brings. Sherlock works a hand between them and awkwardly undoes their zips and buttons. John begins kissing and licking down Sherlock’s throat.

“John,” Sherlock husks, his hips bucking into John’s stomach at a particularly strong suck. Long-fingered hands pull on the material at the doctor’s back, urging him back up.

The first touch of skin on skin is electric and soon they’re rutting against each other, panting breaths into each other’s mouths and hands grasping wherever they can reach. The cot creaks warningly, but neither pay it any mind as their movements grow more frantic and moans join their gasps.

It’s over embarrassingly quickly, but they finish around the same time, Sherlock going silent and tense and John with a shudder right after him. For several moments they lie there, waiting for their breathing to slow. John licks the sweat from Sherlock’s neck and the latter shudders.

“God, John,” he rumbles, pulling the army doctor closer.

They really should get up, clean themselves before someone walks in on them, but neither wants to move. Gradually, as the endorphins fade and the stinging in Sherlock’s leg becomes noticeable again, Sherlock sighs and loosens his hold. John gets up and cleans them the best he can, though their uniforms will need a better wash before they can wear them again. Suddenly, Sherlock grips John’s wrist.

“I’m only here because my brother thought it would help me learn discipline,” he confesses, eyes slightly pained and maybe a bit afraid as he scans John’s face. 

The admission obviously means a lot to him, and John can sense the question behind the words, so he smiles and squeezes Sherlock’s hand reassuringly before turning to put away the supplies he’d used to treat the shrapnel wound. “I’m only here because I couldn’t afford medical school on my own,” John admits in return. “That and I like to help people,” he adds, smirking.

Behind him, Sherlock gives a relieved chuckle. “Oh, you’re not so boring as all that, John Watson.”

John raises his eyebrows and turns. “Oh? Helping people is boring?”

Sherlock smirks at him. “Like me, you love the joy of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins.” Sherlock’s voice has gone deep and rumbly as he sits up and pulls John in by the belt loop.

John licks his lips and doesn’t miss the way Sherlock’s eyes flick to the movement. “Just the two of us against the rest of the world?” John murmurs.

“Obviously,” Sherlock returns, and pulls him in for a kiss as heated as the desert sun.


End file.
